Secretariat Reborn (7 page)

Christian’s jaw dropped. “I saw her. A dark bay lying by the horse trailers. Price trained her?”

The older guard nodded. “Sometimes it happens, but don’t you worry, son. Your horse will be fine. You come with me to my office. I do the fingerprinting here. By the time we’re done, the state office should be open.”

Christian paid forty dollars for the fingerprinting and another hundred for a license. The money was adding up. Before leaving the track, he heard the crowd cheering and hotfooted to the rail. He got there in time to see the horses in the first race blow past. As he left the grandstand, a TV monitor said that the trainer of the winning horse was Ed Price.

It took a half hour to find the sailboat owner. The neighborhood was called Hibiscus Terrace, tired-looking with small lots and faded single-story block homes built in the 1960s. The surrounding chain-link fences were lined with old boats, boxes, and junk. He saw the sailboat a short block away, parked in the grass alongside a potholed driveway.

He stopped in front of the faded pink house and began inspecting the McGregor.

A balding, middle-aged man opened the house door and walked out. “You the one that called about the boat?”

“Yeah,” Christian said, inspecting the hull. He then walked to the stern. “Can I climb aboard?”

“Go ahead,” said the man. “She’s a beauty and a bargain. My son owned her but doesn’t have time to sail anymore.”

Christian climbed up the ladder and slipped past the small outboard onto the deck. He looked at the washed-out teak trim and hatch, its varnish half peeled.

“She’s pretty rough.” Christian pushed up the hatch leading to a hot cabin that contained two bunks in the front hull, a tiny head, and a table with wooden benches.

“Why was the kitchen gutted?” he called to the man.

“My son raced her, wanted to make her lighter.”

“How are the sails and motor?”

“The main and jib are nearly new, and she has two spinnakers. The ten-horse Johnson runs fine.”

Before leaving the cabin, Christian tried to turn the crank that lowered the retractable keel, but nothing moved. Back on deck, he looked down at the man. “It’s gonna take a lot to fix this boat.”

“That’s why she’s only a thousand.” The man grinned.

Christian hopped down and climbed under the hull, reinspecting the keel. “The keel is warped and it’s stuck up inside. It’ll have to be pulled. That repair alone costs more than the boat is worth.” He ran his hand over his mouth, adding up the money and labor involved to salvage the boat. After examining the old iron trailer, he turned to the man. “Providing the sails are good and the motor runs, I’ll give you six.”

“Six hundred?” The man frowned. “The sails alone are worth seven.”

“The sails are the only thing I’m really buying,” Christian said. “Take it or leave it.” There was an old saying: the best days for a boat owner are the day the boat was bought and the day it sold. For this guy, the saying rang true.

“Fine.” The man grunted. “I’m tired of mowing around it.”

Christian paid the guy, getting the title and trailer registration. He hooked up the trailer to his SUV and was grateful the brake lights worked. He left Miami as the thunderclouds rolled in.

•   •   •

Driving west on Alligator Alley toward a brilliant pink-and-orange sunset, he witnessed the spectacular lightning storms that moved across the vast plain of swaying cattails raked by the wind and laced with narrow waterways. Except for the highway and its traffic, the Everglades was empty, endless, and breathtaking. “This is the way Florida was meant to be,” he mumbled.

The Glades turned into cypress and pine forests, signaling an end to the hundred-mile journey across the state. At Naples he would face the monotonous drive north on I-75. After another hundred miles, he would be home, soothed by his comfortable sloop on the peaceful bay.

At dark he pulled off the interstate at the third Sarasota exit and drove though the quiet town toward the beaches. May and a Sunday night, traffic was sparse. He arrived at the Sarasota Sailing Squadron on City Island and stopped at the chain-link gate. After punching in the code, he drove past rows of dry-docked boats. He found an empty slot and backed his newly acquired boat into the narrow space.

He unhooked the trailer and placed a call to Kate. Tired from the long day, he was glad she didn’t answer. He grabbed a flashlight from the SUV and wandered though the small, breezy park of Australian pines to the bay.

His dinghy sat on grass, just beyond a narrow beach where large broken clamshells and dried seaweed had come to rest. He flipped the small boat over, shoved it into the water, and soon was paddling toward
The Princess
, a forty-eight-foot Morgan that was moored a hundred yards offshore.
I can’t wait to hit that bunk
.

The bay was several miles across, sandwiched between the barrier keys and town. A slight chop reflected the sparkling lights of the surrounding high-rises as the moonlight guided him past other anchored sailboats. In the distance to his left, he heard the blowing noise of the local bottle-nosed dolphins.

He reached his broad sailboat, built more for comfort than speed, and tied the dinghy to the ladder off the stern. In the dark
hold, he stripped off his clothes and crawled onto the bunk, grateful to finally be home. What a journey it had been over the last several days. Listening to the whistling wind, the halyards clanging against the aluminum mast, and the waves lapping against the hull, he quickly forgot his worries: the horses, racing, and his sick father as
The Princess
gently rocked him to sleep.

Over the next few weeks, Christian’s life returned to normal. During the day, he rented out his small boats and WaveRunners, sometimes giving private sailing lessons. Jake, his freckled-faced employee, bused dishes at night in a seafood restaurant and worked for Christian on weekends and afternoons. Since the easy job involved the water and boats that attracted plenty of female customers, the poor, red-headed kid probably would have worked for free, desperate to find a girlfriend.

On weekday evenings, Christian restored the McGregor that had been moved to the boatyard area. With the promise of free beer, he enlisted the help of friends and, together, they managed to remove the eight-hundred-pound lead keel. After Christian sanded, added new fiberglass, and gave the keel a fresh coat of paint, the men set it back inside the boat with new cables.

Christian next started on the gutted cabin, rebuilding the kitchen cabinets, replacing the counters, cold storage, and adding a small sink. After the cabin work was done, he planned to overhaul the motor and varnish the outer wood trim. To restore a boat, one had to be a carpenter, painter, and mechanic—a jack-of-all-trades.

When finished and sold, the McGregor might net him four or five grand, not much money considering all his time and effort, but for Christian it was a labor of love. If he hadn’t purchased the McGregor, the old girl surely would have been stripped of her sails and motor and ended up at the dump. He now breathed new life into her, giving her a second chance to adorn the seas.

Although inanimate objects, boats, he felt, had a persona, and
to save one was a worthy cause. Like other sailors, he could cherish, curse, or plead with a vessel as if it contained a soul. He reflected that no horse could compete with his love for boats and the water.

Christian’s weekend nights were reserved for Kate, for partying with her friends and sex. He could never find the opportunity to discuss his mounting frustration with their relationship.

He told Kate that his father had given him a colt, and to his surprise, she was delighted. Dating a Thoroughbred owner gave her bragging rights, because she believed only the prominent and wealthy possessed racehorses.

When he mentioned he would be returning to Miami soon to check on the horse, she asked to come along. He agreed, thinking that on the long drive he could discuss his unhappiness and perhaps improve their relationship. Also, it might be fun going to the track, watching some races, and having someone share his enthusiasm. Within days, he regretted his decision. Kate flatly said she had no interest in horses, only in their owners. She was looking forward to shopping, dining in fine restaurants, and taking in the South Beach nightlife.

At the Sarasota Sailing Squadron, he reminded her that this was a business trip. Its purpose was to see the colt, watch him work, and talk to his trainer. Only if there was time would they follow her agenda.

She blew him off, complaining they hadn’t taken a vacation together in over a month, that he owed her. “And it should take you only a few minutes to look at a horse,” she huffed.

He foresaw the coming conflict and grief. She expected him to chauffeur her around, wine and dine her, and party until dawn. He decided in that instant he would not be bullied.

“Look, Kate,” he said. “The horse is the priority on this trip. If you have a problem with that, maybe you shouldn’t come.”

Her green eyes took on an open-mouthed gaze, and she withdrew a step. “You’re an asshole, Chris!” She flung her long, brown hair, gave him the finger, and stormed off to her car.

Christian watched the powder-puff blue Porsche race down the road. “This is getting old,” he mumbled. He realized he was first attracted to Kate because she was beautiful and polished with a teasing, witty charm. And then there was her voracious sex drive, so erotic that he had initially felt like a virgin on their first night. She was exciting and, unlike past girlfriends, she was a challenge. But now he was seeing the real Kate, the demanding, selfish Kate. For him, the hot romance was cooling faster than an overnight cold front.

The next day Kate phoned. “Hi, baby.” She always called him “baby” when she wanted something. “I’m sorry I got mad. I realize this little horse your daddy gave you is important. I always sleep late, so you’ll have all morning with it. We can work things out. You know I get lonely and still miss my family. You’re all I have, Chris. Please let me come.”

Kate had inherited her money at seventeen when her parents were killed in a car accident. He massaged the back of his neck, feeling the sympathy for a young woman on her own winning him over. And maybe with an honest talk, he could fix things, turn their troubled relationship around. “All right, Kate.”

“That’s great. Lately you’ve been so testy. This trip will be good for us. You know I love you, baby,” she said and hung up.

Christian called his father and said he was heading back to Miami for the weekend to check on Hunter. He would call again when he got back with an update. He also mentioned the dead filly that Price had trained.

“Accidents happen,” Hank said, “even to the fittest horses and the best trainers, but I’m sorry you had to see that. You’ve always been thin-skinned when it comes to animals. I remember when your old collie died and you cried for a week. Never saw a little kid take it so hard.”

Christian reflected on his childhood pet. Growing up on the farm and miles from other kids, he had relied on Lady for companionship.
“Yeah, I loved that collie, still miss her. But getting back to Price, besides the dead filly, there’s something about him I don’t like. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just a gut feeling.”

“Well, he’s listed as one of the top trainers in Miami and his horses win. Go down and inspect your colt. If you find a problem, we’ll switch trainers, but that delays his first race and eats up more money and time.”

Time my father doesn’t have
, Christian thought. “It’s probably nothing. Price just comes across like an arrogant S.O.B., but I’m sure Hunter’s in good hands.”

“Give me a jingle when you get back.”

They ended the call, but Christian had noticed his father’s wheezy voice and the breathlessness. He decided that after the trip to Miami, he would drop Kate off in Sarasota and continue to Ocala. His concern over the loss of business and work would have to take a backseat to the reality that his father was dying and, oddly enough, he wanted to be with him.

Late in the morning on Friday, Kate propped her bare feet up on the dash of the SUV and sipped a soda as Christian drove east on Alligator Alley. They reached the halfway point in the Glades, and he pulled off at the rest stop.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked and straightened in the seat.

“I thought we’d take a break and look around.” He pulled into a parking space. “The Everglades are awesome, Kate.”

“Of course you
would
love it,” she said. “It’s flat, hot, and full of mosquitoes. There’s nothing to see.”

“Yeah, no civilization. That’s what makes it great. Come on and check it out.”

“No, thanks, I’ll wait here. Keep the air on.”

He left the engine running and walked to a canal. A large alligator meandered down the center. On the far bank, a few roseate spoonbills waded near a blue heron. He stared out at the immense landscape with an endless horizon. The Glades resembled a green
ocean and had been fondly called the river of grass. After several minutes, he returned to the SUV.

“You missed a big gator,” he said and backed his vehicle out of the parking space.